Lord Ardent kept his word about tomorrow.

He appeared at breakfast — something he had not done on any of the previous mornings — and sat across the table from Seraphine with a cup of black tea and the air of a man fulfilling an obligation he had accepted and intended to discharge properly. Lady Maribel arrived shortly after and positioned herself at the head of the table in the manner of someone who had been told of this arrangement in advance and had opinions about it.

Seraphine had opinions about Lady Maribel.

The woman was precise in her opinions, methodical in her disapproval, and interested in Seraphine in the way that a very good chess player was interested in an unknown piece — not dismissively, but assessingly, trying to determine what moves it was capable of before deciding how to respond to it. Seraphine respected this. She preferred known hostility to performed welcome.

"I understand you've been making good progress in the conservatory," Lady Maribel said. This was addressed to Seraphine but the quality of her attention included Cassian, checking whether his expression confirmed or contradicted.

"The assessment phase is nearly complete," Seraphine said. "I'll have a full restoration plan within the week."

"Excellent." A pause. "Your mother is well, I hope?"

The question was delivered with perfect smoothness, but it was a question with a purpose — Seraphine could hear the purpose in it, the way it was opening a door rather than exchanging pleasantries. *Tell me about your background. Tell me about your family. Tell me about what you come from so I know whether to let you stay.*

"My mother is managing," Seraphine said. "She runs the nursery while I'm away."

"It must be difficult for her," Lady Maribel said. "Running a business alone. After losing your father so suddenly." Another pause. "Your father's work — he was a botanist, I believe?"

Here was the door. And behind it: *how much do you know? How much have you been told? How much have you figured out on your own?*

"A botanist, yes. And a Luminology researcher in his later career." Seraphine set down her cup with deliberate care. "As you know."

The table went very quiet in the specific way of tables that contain people managing their reactions.

"As I know," Lady Maribel repeated. Not quite confirming, not quite denying.

"You said *his work here*," Seraphine said. She kept her voice level, the voice she used when she was very certain of something and intended to remain certain of it. "Last night at dinner — *his work here*. As though it were common knowledge. But I wasn't told, when I received the contract, that my father had been to Luminara Hall. That information was withheld."

Silence.

Cassian was looking at his cup. He had not moved since she began speaking.

"Your father consulted on the early restoration," he said. The same words he had used the previous evening — she recognized the exact phrasing, the careful neutrality of it. "It was before the —"

"The incident," she said. "Yes. You said." She looked at him. "What incident?"

The word *incident* sat on the table between all three of them like something that had been set there and left for someone else to move.

"There was a fire," Cassian said. "In the lower laboratory. Several years ago. Some equipment was destroyed and the research program was significantly set back." A pause. "Your father was not involved in the incident directly. He had left the project before it occurred."

"Left, or was removed?"

A silence that had the quality of a different kind of answer.

"The collaboration ended," he said. "By mutual agreement."

She looked at him steadily. *Mutual agreement* was another shape around an answer, like *incident* was a shape around what had actually happened. She was collecting these shapes, cataloguing them the way she catalogued botanical specimens — carefully, without forcing a conclusion, letting the picture assemble itself from sufficient detail.

Lady Maribel set down her fork.

"Miss Vale," she said, with the tone of someone who has decided to say something that will not be said twice. "I want to be clear with you about something, because I think you are an intelligent woman and I believe intelligent women do better with clarity than with circumspection." She folded her hands on the table. "This house has a difficult history. Difficult in ways that directly involved people who are no longer alive to speak for themselves, and who therefore cannot consent to being spoken about. I am not unsympathetic to your desire to understand your father's involvement with our family and this research program. But I would ask you to consider that there are questions whose answers — if they exist at all — may cause more damage than the questions themselves."

Seraphine looked at her for a moment.

"With respect, Lady Maribel," she said, "that argument is most commonly made by people who benefit from certain answers remaining hidden."

Lady Maribel looked at her for a long moment. Then something moved in her expression — not offense, exactly, but the particular response of someone who has had an opponent make a better move than expected.

"Curiosity has cost many people dearly in this house, Miss Vale," she said. "I would advise you to remember why you are here. And only that."

*And only that.* The words landed in the room with the weight of something very specific — not a general caution but a memory, or several memories, or the knowledge of consequences that had accrued to other curious people in this house before her.

She thought of Evelise Marrow. Curious. Asking questions. Gone into a conservatory in a storm.

She thought of her father. Curious. Working on a research program he had apparently left under circumstances that were described as mutual and were probably not.

She folded her napkin and placed it beside her plate. "Thank you for breakfast," she said.

She excused herself before either of them could respond and walked down the corridor toward the stairs, her pace unhurried, her hands loose at her sides.

In the upper hall she stopped before a portrait she had been walking past for five days without properly looking at. The subject was a woman of perhaps forty — no, younger than forty, but with the expression of someone whose face had aged faster than her years, the expression of someone who had been feeling too many things for too long and had begun to show it. Dark hair, light eyes. The Ardent bone structure, the particular quality of the jaw.

The plaque below the frame: *Lady Oriane Ardent.*

Cassian's mother.

The painter had been honest, or had been instructed to be honest, and so the portrait contained what a kinder portrait might have softened: the quality in the eyes that was not quite happiness and not quite grief but the specific condition that existed between them, when you had been hoping for too long and the hope had begun to change shape.

Seraphine stood in front of it for a long moment.

Then she went upstairs, and sat at her writing desk, and wrote in her notebook:

*Things I know for certain:*

*1. My father worked at Luminara Hall on the Luminology research program.*

*2. He left before a fire in the lower laboratory.*

*3. The symbol in his notebook is the notation system he helped develop.*

*4. He wrote "she will be" four years before he died.*

*5. There is a lower laboratory that does not appear on any floor plan.*

*6. Evelise Marrow suspected Dr. Halewick of something she couldn't prove.*

*7. Lady Maribel is protecting something, or someone.*

*Things I do not yet know:*

*How my father died.*

*What Evelise found.*

*What is in the east wing at midnight.*

*What Cassian Ardent knows and has chosen not to tell me.*

She looked at the last item for a long time.

Then she added, in a different ink, as though it had occurred to her later and been worth returning for:

*Why he keeps the white flower from the northeast bed alive in a vase on the dinner table.*

At dinner that evening, Cassian did not appear. There was a note beside her place setting in his precise hand — *Apologies. Tomorrow* — and beside it the white flower in its narrow vase, and in its vase it glowed with the faintest light, the light of stored warmth, the light of something that had absorbed more than it was being given and was giving it back slowly, in careful measure, the way certain people were careful with what they gave because they had not had enough of it themselves.

Seraphine ate alone with the flower glowing between the candles and thought about what it meant to be careful and what it meant to be closed and whether there was, in fact, a difference.